NotsoCivil War
by Origami628
Summary: One take on the American Civil War.
1. Beginning

He doesn't remember how he got here.  
He doesn't really care. It's not important.  
What is important is him. That man and the rage he feels from his people when he looks at him, calmly contained within his personality. After all, it's not gentlemanly to fly off in a rage at someone, now is it?  
Not that the dirty, negro-loving Yank would care. He's just as bad as any of them, that man.  
They lived in separate houses, obviously. He wouldn't spend time with that man to save his life. He would rather drink tea, peacefully talk to the governor and farmers, and perhaps steer the Confederacy in a new, peaceful direction. But that couldn't happen as long as that man was at his throat. It was really only a matter of time before he had to back down, before he'd be forced to back down by the superior of the two.  
"An' who better t' catch sum Yank tail than me?"  
Alfred woke up in a cold sweat, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling. Just a dream, just a dream.  
"Was it just a dream, Yank?"  
Eyes shifted over to him; his pose relaxed, laid-back, his voice a gentle Virginian drawl, a self-assured smile on his face. The same face as the man in the bed. A face that wasn't supposed to be there.  
"Am I just a dream, Yank? Y'sure yer feelin a'right?"  
He walked closer as the man in the bed scooted back; catching him right now is a perfect opportunity. You don't get to catch your enemy sleeping very often.  
"Ge-get away! You're not real! Th-This is all in my head, everything's fine—"  
"All in yer head, Yank? Now tha' ain't right't all."  
He moved closer; a slow pace, there's no need to rush. Everything will be fine, soon the Union will admit defeat and he-  
"You really don't wanna come back, do you?"  
It was a tired tone, one that caught him by surprise; he didn't show it, but he did blink and the smile on his face faded by the slightest amount.  
"Bless your heart, ya really believe I liked ya, huh, Yank? Yer tirin', and ya ain't got a clue."  
He watched the other man rub his neck and sigh, before the Union locking eyes in a straight-on challenge, his entire countenance resonating his seriousness, his voice low and challenging; words that brought a smile to the Confederacy's face lazily.  
"Well if you don't wanna come back by yourself, I guess we'll just have to force you."  
"Force me? Now, ain't that cute."  
His head lifted up slightly as he looked down at Alfred, the Union, the other side to him that he wanted to be rid of.  
"God bless ya with that, Yank."


	2. End

Days had passed, weeks, months, years even, and the war had dragged on. He knew that the only reason it had gone on this long was his generals. Jackson had done his fair share of fighting and had done so well, whilst Grant vs Lee had become almost a fair match.  
Almost.  
But it wasn't quite enough, was it? He was laying in the mud, his hat off, a rifle to his head as that Yank stood over him, panting, covered in dirt and bruises and mud and blood.  
What a site. Not that he looked the best either, he wagered.  
"Well, this ain't how I w's picturin' it…"  
"It's over. The war's over, you lost. Now come back."  
"Come back to ya, Yank? Heh, well. Y'beggin? Ain't the right way t'do things, yanno."  
The grin slipped slightly off his face as he said it; an attempt to recover his pride under the situation.  
"Give it up, rebel. Ya lost."  
The tone in which it was said is what made him look up; to see tired eyes, much like his own, a drawn mouth biting back comments that'd only hurt his case, gaunt cheeks, disheveled, messy hair that probably didn't look that bad before. It wasn't all fun and games. He had his share of wins and the Yank knew it, he saw that he knew.  
"Well…it was fun, partner. Don't be get'n cocky now, y'ain't won yet. Y'beat us. But y'aint won."  
And that grin was back in place as he saw the slight falter in the Union. Alfred. Their name.  
"Y'may have won this war, but the battle's still a long ways fr'm over."  
And with that the man collapsed, tired to not say anything else, weak already. He had been badly hurt, was halfway gone, and now was defeated. He had no more purpose. He was beaten, game over.  
"Yo, reb. This ain't a good place to lay down and nap."  
His eyes blinked open in a surprised manner at the man above him; rifle down, a ghost of his usual grin on his face, hand in his pocket. A typical stance for him, so blasé and uncaring about manners.  
"Let's getcha inside, huh?"  
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  
"Bless my soul, a Yank helping a Reb. Sure, soldier, do yer best."  
And he got up and took the hand offered to him; leaning on the Union as the two limped inside together, mirrored and yet opposed. Afterall, they were brothers in blood, but two parts of a whole.


End file.
